Put On Your Hat
by Athene18
Summary: There's been an incident in the Gorg's garden, and now Mokey is sent to make it right. Rated for later chapters, some sensuality but no sexuality.
1. Chapter 1

Take Off Your Hat

Prologue

She stretched out her hands, glorifying in the way her arms went out farther and farther, past the point where they had ever gone. She did it slowly – so, so slowly. The liquid way her muscles moved, the way she just went out from herself. Her body had so many more curves now, and she wanted to stretch them all straight, and then to draw them all back in. Four new digits, one on each hand and foot, had grown, and the soft wind touched them gently, pushing at them, caressing and cradling them and their new awareness. Finally her arms reached their end, and she stood balanced on tiptoe, feeling the new, smallest toes splaying out to balance her. She smiled up to the sun, deeply breathing in air which had always been out of her reach. Bigger though she was, the world itself seemed suddenly so much bigger as well, as though she had only ever seen a small part, which of course was true, and now that she found herself above her former limits, space too exploded out. With a snap, all the suddenness her form and nature would allow, she hugged herself, wrapping her arms around to her back, stretching, straining until her fingers met in back. She gave a little jump for joy and threw up a leg. She laughed aloud as she reached down, feeling her body. Her small potbelly had moved up, and somehow split into two parallel humps. The light velvet fuzz was gone from most of her body, leaving only rich pale locks on her head, and the silken purple fur on her torso. She smiled to herself as she felt the lines on her thighs where the hair began. Once again she lifted her hands to the sky, raising them up to take hold of a sun she finally thought she might hold.


	2. Chapter 2

_One month earlier…_

Mokey scooped earth from around the rim of the radish, digging a groove for her fingers. Purple hands eased down the irregular roundness of the vegetable, applying slow, steady pressure, working up under it, patiently trying to free it from the reluctant ground.

Mokey generally left those vegetables which did not come up with a moderate amount of effort. After all, what she could not lift, a Gorg could pluck up with two fingers, or Doozers easily mine. The garden itself seemed to split its own contents up among those who depended on it, to each was allotted that which was useful to it. But occasionally, Mokey came upon a radish or a carrot or a rutabaga which promised to be such a treat for the others at dinner that there was really no question of not getting it. This was just such a radish. It was a deep red all the way up to the base of its leaves, and Mokey judged (and after so many years, of any judgment, Mokey's was the best) that it was just on the verge of going bad, so that the delicate sweetness of impending rot was just evident, and tomorrow would have taken over. Radishes like this were hard to find, the state being only a day or even a few hours long, and thus had to be eaten quickly. Mokey had herself lunched on parts of several over the years by herself in the garden, when one was too far gone, or merely too stubborn, to be taken and shared by many. Always, this carried for her some regret. But the best use she knew of for these radishes was Boober's Sweet Radish Pie, which he had been yearning to make of late. So Mokey was not unhappy to spend a little time digging one perfect radish for him. As she dug, she thought of red things. Summer rose petals in the other side of the garden, the line between shadow and light on the Sweetwater, Red's hair in the night as she slept. It was not in her nature to think of blood.

The radish came up from the ground, only its long ragged thread still in the ground, which loosened itself as Mokey stood up. She brushed the dirt off of it as best she could, shifting it from one arm to the other as she tried to get most of it off before hauling it back to the Fraggle hole. When all of it she thought was necessary had been knocked off, she straightened up.

A blast of choking white threw her off her feet, the radish fell and rolled. Mokey could not breathe. There were hooks in her lungs, thousands of them, tiny and airborne, and they burned and shredded her wind tunnel. The sheer force of the blast of air had knocked her down, coming from her right side, and therewithal a large voice sounded.

"Hey, wow, I got a Fraggle! Come 'ere, Fraggle!"

She was scooped up in a huge, warm, hairy hand, in which she lay limply, barely conscious.

"Hey, Fraggle? Are you dead?"

Junior Gorg poked at the small furry thing in his palm. It was a large Fraggle, but still its feet only dangled at his wrist, while its head rested on the first knuckle of his fingers. He gently tugged at its arm. Mokey was jerked back up from the mist by pain as the bone separated from the socket, writhing, grabbing it with her other arm, before falling back again. Junior, unaware of the damage he had just done, put a hand to his mouth.

"Ohhh…Fraggle, don't be dead. You wasn't supposed to die! It's just a stunning potion! You doesn't die until I stomp you…Don't be dead…" His agitation was growing as the small creature did not respond. A sense of terrible guilt took over him, and he searched for some way to undo it. "Here," he said, stooping down, "I put you back. See, I put you back where you were. I leave you here, your little Fraggle friends will find you, yes? Don't be dead, Fraggle…"

He set the tiny body down beside the hole from which the radish had just come, and now lay over to one side. He lay her down as gently as he could, the backs of his hands indenting a small hollow in the ground. And as gently as he could, he tiptoed away. Mokey lay in the dust, breathing in the leftover fumes.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh-hh, where is that Mokey?!" Red cried, exasperated. The yellow Fraggle had been searching for her friend over the better part of an hour now, with no success. Mokey was a particularly hard Fraggle to find, Red had discovered, as many of the Fraggles she asked told her that, while they might have seen her, often she was too quiet to know if one really had, or if so, when she had come or gone. Also, she was given to finding odd haunts, almost as bad as Gobo, in her search for things to satisfy her artistic curiosity. At this point, the only Fraggle Red knew who might have an inkling of where Mokey might be was the World's Oldest Fraggle, whom Red was loath to ask, as his tendency with questions was to ignore them completely and launch into fond (or sometimes, not so fond) recollections of the Fraggle in question. But having exhausted every other source except for Gobo (whom she could not find either), Wembley (who never could give a straight answer) and Boober (who Red knew had not been out of the laundry room all day), she was on her way to see him.

"Mokey, eh?" the old Fraggle crowed, "Now _there_ was the gentlest Fraggle ever born! You know we old folks were all worried when she was younger, 'cause we thought she might go blind as she aged…happens, occasionally, to Fraggles with those sleepy eyes…gets to the point their eyes close forever…we were always having the Caregiver keep a lookout on her, but as she grew up and they didn't start growing down we eventually relaxed and…"

Red sighed inwardly as she tuned out the old Fraggle's regalia. Fragglet stories were never interesting if you were alone. Even if you could not have a group there to hear, it at least helped to have the person there to blush.

"…but artists, eh, they see more than the rest of us…"

Her mind turned to the missing Gobo. Were the two perhaps together? It was possible for them to have gone off walking or painting or exploring together – occasionally, for reasons Red could not conceive, each liked some quiet time with out actually being alone, and they seemed to serve each other's purposes well. _Hmn,_ she thought. Things had been calm for a while. No doubt that was what had happened. She would just go on her way and let them come back from these meanderings as they always did, in their own time.

"…not that it may not happen later in her life…"

"Yeah, uh, thanks, sir! I think I know where she is now!" Red called over her shoulder, running out of the room. The World's Oldest Fraggle paid her no heed, merely continuing his medical analysis to thin air.

Mokey had never met a horse, but if she had, if one of them could have been shrunken down to a size at which she could comprehend it, she might have found that she and the beast shared certain character traits. Mokey had in fact not died in the Gorg's palm, but, losing wakeful consciousness, her subconscious resorted to deep instinctual behavior, cultivated from many years of working in the Gorg's garden: do not call attention to yourself. Sneaking around in larger enemies's gardens, one did not announce anything that made oneself any more suitable a target. Mokey had long since learned to downplay injury and stifle cries. Although one had escaped as her arm was dislocated, the gas in her lungs strangled it past the hearing of a Gorg.

As she lay in the small hollow Junior Gorg had made for her, the white mist flowed in with her, shreds of it gathering around her head and over her body, seeping into her lungs with each breath, which grew more and more shallow.

Red had given up her wanderings and sat coloring pictures with Wembley as Gobo walked in. She was halfway through a group portrait of the five of them, with only Mokey and Gobo incomplete.

"Hey, guys. What'cha doing?" Gobo asked. He went behind them and looked over Red's shoulder. "Wow, Red, those colored potatoes look really good. Let's see, there's a green one, a red one and a yellow one. Any particular reason for the colors?"

"Grr, there's gonna be a purple one and an orange-and-black-and-blue one in a minute!"

"Um, okay," Gobo said, backing away. "Gee, Wembley, yours is really good!" Red glanced over at Wembley's paper and sighed. The poor guy had such trouble with decisions, he rarely could even think of what to draw. Mokey periodically provided him with line drawings to color, so he would not stare at blank pages for hours on end. Red knew she would have provided such pictures for her if asked, but was too proud to accept.

"Oh, no no," Wembley said, "I didn't draw these. You know that, Gobo."

"Well, maybe not," the orange Fraggle smiled, "but you certainly colored them well. Mokey would like what you've done with it."

"Yeah, speaking of Mokey," Red broke in, "what did you do with her?"

"Pardon?"

"You know, where'd you leave her? She is with you, right?"

"No, I haven't seen her all day." Red looked confused.

"But if she hasn't been with you then where is she?"

"Who?"

A green Fraggle with ragged red hair covering his eyes staggered into the room under the weight of a heavy laundry basket. Laying it on the table where Red and Wembley had been drawing, he began sorting out clean laundry into stacks, repeating his question. "Who are we talking about?"

"Mokey. She – "

"Oh, yeah. Hey, tell her she's fallin down on the job," Boober huffed.

"What?" the other three chorused.

"You heard me. I've been waiting all day. She didn't show up with the lunch and she hasn't shown up with the dinner. Fraggles depend on her, you know, and it's rotten of her to shirk like this." To emphasize, he threw down the shirt he had just folded.

"Oh, come on, Boober," Wembley said, "You know that can't be true. Mokey doesn't have a rotten bone in her body, right guys?"

"He's right, Boober," Gobo said. "It couldn't be that she's shirking. There must be some other explanation. Maybe somebody's seen her – "

"No," Red exclaimed, "No one has. I asked everybody earlier."

"Well then, if she's not in the Rock and she didn't come in since this morning, then she must still be out in the garden. Let's go find her!" He set off, Red and Wembley trotting after him. Boober remained, stubbornly stacking laundry.

"Mokeeeeeeeeey!" Wembley called, in his best fire siren voice. "Mokeeeeey! Where aaaaaare yooooooou?" And then, because he had gotten much better volume on the "a," "MOKAAAAAAAY!!!!" Wembley had not spent much time in the garden.

The Fab Fraggle Minus One (Boober's plans to stay with his laundry had been thwarted, when a yank from Red on his tail convinced him otherwise) had spread out as far as they dared to search the Gorg's garden. It was made somewhat more difficult by the fact that, much as Gobo had his tunnels underground, Mokey had her own paths through the plants which only she knew, so all forays into the foliage were guess and check. Gobo went off to the area closer to the Gorgs's dwelling, while Red searched the open spaces and Boober went among the plants, where he felt he could easily disappear into the green. Wembley shouted wherever anything looked promising for sound to carry.

As he moved into the flowers, Boober noticed that the air seemed somehow thicker. After a while, he became aware of thin, opaque white mist around his ankles, trapped by the tall plants close to the ground. His throat felt scratchy, his head light and dizzy. _Must be terrible working out here_, he thought. A short distance in front, the tall stalks opened up without warning into an open area where the mist had dispersed, except for one odd place near the center. In the end, it was lucky that Boober was the one who had come into the flowers. For though she was buried mostly below sightline of the earth, a fold of her coat stood up out of the mist. _Rough weave, thin, no starch – oh, Rock_.

"GUUUUUUYSSS!!"

For Red to be the fastest in Fraggle Rock, she did not beat Wembley or Gobo by much in reaching Boober. "What is it?" Gobo panted. Boober pointed a shaking finger at the dip in the clearing. Puzzled, Gobo looked at him, regaining his breath, and moved into the open area.

Closer in, he could see his friend lying on the ground, covered, it seemed, in clouds. Bending down, he jerked at her sleeve.

"Hey, Mok – " he got nothing more out. A puff of white rose up from her coat as he tugged on it, and as he opened his mouth to talk he was knocked back off his feet by the whiff of it.

"GOBO!" Wembley rushed forward, grabbing his friend.

"It's okay, Wembley," said Gobo, who was already on his shaky way back up. "I only got a little." He coughed, then regained composure. "Okay, so we won't do that again. Must be this stuff that's got her, erm…out. So we'll just drag her away from it and be real careful to hold our breaths…" He heaved a huge breath through his sleeve and blew across the prostrate body, moving most of the clouds off. "There now."

Gobo hooked his arms up under hers, careful as he said to hold his breath as he bent down near the mist. He pulled, but stopped immediately as Mokey's right arm slipped in his grasp. The shoulder felt strangely loose. Gobo's thoughts were cut off by Boober's scream.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!"

Gobo and Wembley turned around to find Boober and Red staring in horror at a dark red radish lying nearby.

"Uh, guys? What's wrong?" Gobo asked.

"The radish!" Boober cried, "It's rotten!"

"…Yeah, so…?"

"Don't you see?" cried Red, "Why would she pick a dead radish? This mist must have done it!"

Wembley suddenly saw.

"Ahhhh!" he yelled, "The mist is rotting her insii-ii-ii-iides!" He began running in panicked circles, raising his own cloud of brown mist. When in reached his sightline he froze, wide-eyed, before covering his mouth with both hands and bolting into the Fraggle hole.

"Wembley, wait!" Red cried.

"Ah, he got scared by his own dust," Gobo said. "C'mon, help me move her." He wrapped his arms around her torso and gave a great pull, bringing her most of the way out of the hole.

"There. Now we can – " he looked up. Neither of the other two had moved, but stood staring with a mute dread. Gobo's voice was hushed. "C'mon, guys. She's too big for me to carry alone. Boober, you get her legs."

Trembling, Boober shook his head.

"She's got it on her," Red whispered.

"Wha – but, I got it too. It just wore off. It'll do the same if we get her away from it…"

"You only got a little."

"And how do you _know _your insides aren't already rotting?"

Gobo was stunned. He looked from them down to the serene mauve face, the furry chest which did not appear to move up or down. But he could _feel_ it move. Could moving or touching his friend really kill him? Was it already too late for her? But, what if not? Was it worse to die than not help his friend? Cradling the turquoise head against his shoulder, his shock turned to anger.

"She'd do it for you."

No answer came from Boober or Red. After a long time, Gobo hoisted Mokey's upper body higher into his arms, making as if to take her himself. In a determined rush Red ran over and grabbed her friend's legs, meeting Gobo's scowl with her own. With a heave, they lifted the tall Fraggle and began carrying her out of the garden, walking slowly around tall stalks and stepping easily so as not to bounce her. At the mouth of the Fraggle hole, they heard running footsteps behind them. Gobo turned his head:

Boober was carefully carrying her tail.


End file.
